


across the line

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Humor, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 22:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12543164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: Jeremy and Richard are left in the studio alone, and Jeremy's got more than power laps on his mind.





	across the line

**Author's Note:**

> so, uh, this is a thing. I never published it on ao3 but it was written for tgs' 2015 secret santa (I had to go back to the comm and check because I seriously don't remember it) and it was published there on the 22nd December 2015. I think it was written before we knew what the premise of the Grand Tour was gonna be, hence the lack of tents and me assuming they'd move to a new studio.
> 
> prompt: And across the line! Since the boys are, fundamentally, TV presenters, one of them keeps trying to narrate events in the bedroom. Chaos ensues.

They’d decided to hold the wrap party in the new studio, mainly because, as Jeremy had pointed out, they desperately needed to ‘break in’ the new space. James had agreed happily enough, but Richard had raised an eyebrow, eventually conceding. He knew Jeremy well enough now to suspect there were some ulterior motives, and he wasn’t wrong: for a while now, the idea had been bubbling in Jeremy’s head about fucking Richard on the sofa in the studio. It was wrong and naughty of him, but it turned him on something fierce, hence his idea for the wrap party.

The gathering was winding down now as people started to siphon off, disappearing out the big doors into the cool night air. Standing by the bar, pouring himself another glass of wine (the rosé had been finished hours ago, so he has to settle for a chardonnay), Jeremy watches James shake hands with one of the cameramen, smiling widely. He can tell by the flushed look on James’ face that he’s had as much, if not more, wine than himself—also evident in the way he sways a tiny bit on his feet.

He looks over at Richard, trying to ignore the way that, even with the copious amounts of alcohol he’d had tonight, seeing the younger man sends a shiver down his spine, heat beginning to pool in his belly. Richard is chatting to one of the girls from the office—Christ, he can’t remember her name, Madeline or Maddie or Margaret or something like that—animatedly, waving his hands in the air, probably trying to wow her with stories of his bravery in his helicopter. He still hasn’t shaved that god-awful goatee, although now they’ve both grown sort of attached to it.

Richard glances over at him, and they exchange a long, weighty gaze. Jeremy’s not sure what Richard is trying to communicate, only that he can feel the weight of Richard’s look on his skin. He shivers slightly again, tamping down his feelings of lust, aware that they’re in public and this is meant to be secret (although, he’s certain James has figured it out by now). Richard looks back to Marissa or Mary or whatever her name is, smiling widely like he’s got some secret Jeremy doesn’t know about.

***

“That was a resounding success, Clarkson,” James says, coming up next to him. “It was a fantastic idea to have it here.”

Jeremy turns to him and frowns. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough. Why?” James blinks up at him.

“Because you’re giving me praise, instead of calling me a maddening cock,” he replies, smiling slightly. The alcohol is making everything spin a bit, but James’ appreciation is not unwelcome.

James smiles, too. “You’re only a maddening cock ninety-nine percent of the time, Clarkson. Not one-hundred.”

He’s about to reply—something about James being a pedantic sod one hundred and fifty percent of the time—but Richard wanders up to them, nodding at James, who is leaning quite heavily on the wall. “Shall we call him a taxi?”

Jeremy nods, swallowing his questions about when _they’re_ going to go home—so he can pin Richard against the wall and _feel_ him—and instead pulls out his mobile.

***

Jeremy flops down on the sofa and lets his head fall back. He loves wrap parties—really, he does. It’s a chance to wallow in their success. There’s still hard work to come—editing, recording the voice overs, and, of course, filming in front of an audience—but the bulk of it is behind them. A year ago, he’d never realised this is where they’d be; but he has his best mates, and he has a job, and everything is right with the world.

The sofa depresses next to him, and he’s not exactly surprised when he looks over to see Richard, stretching his legs out in front of him and looking tired, eyes fluttering shut. Jeremy knows they’re the last two in here and he can’t help himself, so he leans over, hand falling on Richard’s thigh, pressing a kiss to his lips gently.

Richard’s eyes snap open, and he frowns. “We’re in the new studio, Clarkson,” he warns, eyebrows furrowing. “Don’t.”

But Jeremy knows Richard now, knows that by the way his pulse flutters on his neck, by the way his pupils dilate, that he wants this just as much as he does. They’re thrillseekers at heart, both of them always striving for more, pushing the envelope on what can and should be done, and this—the forbidden, the almost public act—has Richard licking his lips nervously, eyes wide as he leans forward almost imperceptibly.

That’s all the encouragement Jeremy needs, and he leaps forward, slinging a leg over Richard’s thighs, the alcohol making him nimbler than a man of his age and weight has any right to be. Grabbing Richard by the collar, he pulls him in for a crushing, desperate kiss, fueled by all the times Richard had stared at him from across the room, something unreadable in his eyes. Richard responds immediately, arching up beneath him, hands scrabbling underneath Jeremy’s shirt, desperate to feel skin.

Even after all this time, the feel of Richard’s mouth on his never fails to surprise him a little; he’d never predicted his life would end up this way, with Richard’s nails digging into his back, rutting furiously up against him. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or perhaps it’s the joy of realising his life is back on track again, but he smiles against Richard’s lips, completely content.

Richards hands are fussing at his belt now, but Jeremy wants to see Richard come undone for him, so he nudges them out of the way. He splays his hand against the hot skin of Richard’s belly before thumbing open the button of Richard’s jeans and slipping his hand underneath to palm at Richard’s cock through the fabric of his pants.

“Fuck. Clarkson—please—” Richard groans, hands gripping Jeremy’s arms. “Don’t tease me. Please.”

Jeremy bites back a grin. He loves teasing Richard, especially as the more he does it, the more aggressive and physical Richard gets. But he’s begging and—well, he’s too inebriated to draw this out properly, so he grabs the waistband of Richard’s jeans and pants and pulls them off in one smooth motion, admiring the way he looks, spread open on the sofa of their new studio, sweaty and hard and all _his_.

He crawls on top of Richard once more, ignoring the way his back is starting to twinge and how his dicky hip is protesting, and kisses him again, hands trailing down Richard’s chest. Apropos of absolutely nothing—perhaps a freudian slip as a result of them being in the new studio, shagging on the very sofa that they'll have to film on in a few months, the new power lap board ready and waiting—as his fingers close around Richard's cock, he finds himself muttering under his breath.

"And they're off."

Richard opens his eyes and squints at Jeremy. "What did you say?"

Jeremy shrugs. "It seems appropriate. We are in the studio, after all."

Richard fixes him with a level stare, despite the sweat beading on his brow and how his fingers are digging into the squeaky new leather of the sofa. "Clarkson. If you narrate this, I'll never talk to you again."

That hadn’t been his intention, but now that he mentioned it… he just smiles and twists his wrist, enjoying the way Richard hisses in pleasure, the way he looks like this. It’d taken him a while to get used to wanking Richard off—the angles were all wrong—but now he knows what he likes, it’s surprisingly easy to get Richard to come undone. Already he’s writhing, fingers clenching, biting his lip.

Must be the alcohol, gotta be, because even _he’s_ surprised when he leans down and whispers into Richard’s ear. “Nicely controlled and gripping hard, Hammond.”

Richard starts laughing at that, leaning forward and clapping a hand over Jeremy’s mouth. “Oh, God, Clarkson. Don’t _do_ that.”

Jeremy shrugs, but doesn’t stop stroking—in fact, he steps up the pace a little bit and is rewarded with a gasp from Richard. “I’m a television presenter. I can’t help it.”

“I mean it—I mean it when I say I won’t talk to you again,” Richard warns stubbornly, jutting his chin forward, trying to sound like he’s serious.

“Really? Won’t you?” Jeremy asks, his other hand coming down to cup Richard’s balls, thumb rubbing over the skin gently. “I think you’re bluffing.”

“M’not,” Richard gasps. “Jeremy, I swear to fucking god—ah!” He is interrupted by Jeremy sliding down onto the hard concrete floor and licking up the length of his cock teasingly, smiling all the while.

Jeremy loses himself in the feel of this, of Richard thrusting up into his mouth, hands pulling his head down, closer—always so impatient. He loves doing this for Richard, loves seeing his eyes roll back in his head as Jeremy takes all of him in his mouth, moving his hand in sync. He can tell by the way Richard is moving now that it won’t be long, so he picks up the pace.

Richard opens one eye and glares at him, mouthing ‘don’t’, at the same time as Jeremy speaks, albeit sounding a tad muffled. “Not lifting off through the follow-through.”

It’s not even applicable anymore since their new track doesn’t have a follow-through, but he’s enjoying the way Richard is getting more and more irritated as he goes so he’s grasping at straws.

“Jeremy—gonna—” Richard gasps as his fingers clench in Jeremy’s hair, pushing his head down, closer, needing the feel of Jeremy’s mouth around his cock as he comes, throwing his head back on the sofa with a long, drawn out moan.

Hip hurting even more now, Jeremy hauls himself up from the floor and sags onto the sofa, resting his head on Richard’s shoulder, hearing his breathing slowly come back to normal, feeling Richard do up his jeans.

“And across the line,” he whispers, and isn’t entirely surprised when Richard groans.

Turning to look at him, Richard narrows his eyes. “That is probably the most un-sexy thing you could ever do, Clarkson.”

“Is that a challenge?” Jeremy replies sweetly, laughing as Richard swipes at him.

“Tosser,” Richard mutters with affection, winding his fingers through Jeremy’s and pulling him off the sofa. “Let’s get out of here.”


End file.
